


a choir he relinquished his body for

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Repression, Sort Of, Sort of a vent, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25834144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: but in moments like these, where he is left vulnerable for reasons he is not entirely certain of, it slips underneath his skin and crawls up his throat. nothing can happen; no internal wounds, metaphorical or literal, can be sustained. he is not built to hurt. he is not built to be vulnerable. this is a truth he knows, one he is certain of.and yet.(or, kamukura locks himself in a closet for reasons he cannot ascertain.)
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 11
Kudos: 104





	a choir he relinquished his body for

cold.

it is cold. and it is cramped, with a distinct scent of mothballs, and it is dark. his hair, metaphorically compared to the midnight sky (especially in comparison to his… companion, who is like a delicate daybreak) is lighter than the shadows that haunt him, ellipsing him in something cold and cramped and  _ dark.  _

he can hear noises. he always can, an endless static, an awareness he has to tune out to stay sane. he can hear the quiver of footsteps in the small building they currently reside in, the roar of thunder outside (that should be muffled, but he can hear it clearly, and he knows it’s purple lightning, the hottest kind, knows that it will set the scarce trees still standing aflame). he can hear every creak, every scream, every sound that he shouldn’t be able to,

and it surrounds him, like a cacophony. and, it is a choir he relinquished his body for, the conquering of talent-- yet, it curses him, plagues him. which is not something he chooses to acknowledge, because it is a nuisance amidst many, 

but in moments like these, where he is left vulnerable for reasons he is not entirely certain of, it slips underneath his skin and crawls up his throat. nothing can happen; no internal wounds, metaphorical or literal, can be sustained. he is not built to hurt. he is not built to be vulnerable. this is a truth he knows, one he is certain of.

and yet. and yet, he falters, locked in a closet of his own volition, entirely numb to the sounds and thoughts that ravage the corners of his mind (and yet, this is a different caliber of numb. he is not sure, now, if he could move at another’s request. he could, logically. but he is not sure if he can in practice. he is not sure what is flawed with him.)

this is unspeakably atypical. he is conditioned to keep his pain (if it could be considered that. he does not feel pain) inside. he has been taught by the very things that created him to not speak unless spoken to, to use muted passivity as a mannerism of control. he has known, too, from a vile woman of hearts, to always stay stoic and beautiful (there is no beauty in anything, to him), to submit to only her and her vices, and to otherwise kill and survive.

(he has only ever killed once. he did not care, when he saw the blood drain and the supposed light disappear from their eyes. he, too, did not care enough when it became common to kill, as he could always evade. 

his servant, in actuality, has harmed more than he ever has. which is an interesting thought.)

he is not sure why he is in a closet. he is not sure why he is hidden, when all he would ordinarily hide from is dead and desecrated in the grounds they birthed. he is not certain, and while uncertainty is typically an interesting rarity, he is hardly interested. 

perhaps later.

he hears footsteps, growing louder, and there is no surprise when the closet door is opened and servant looks down upon him. his overcast grey eyes do not conceal his shock, well, or his mindless concern, bred of idolatry. he kneels, reaches out the hand he owns to touch the other’s cheek, and he rasps out, “kamukura-kun?”

there is not much to say. and yet, he offers an acknowledgement. “komaeda.”

servant hesitates, scanning kamukura’s face as if there is something to find (there isn’t. he is impassive. he does not feel. he does not show). eventually, he must find it taxing, or perhaps worthless, because he slumps, adjusts himself to rest at kamukura’s side. servant is often tucked underneath his chin-- when they sleep, when they attempt to defend each other instinctually, when they embrace in waking-- so it is not unfamiliar. 

what  _ is _ unusual, however, is how kamukura leans into him, holding him tightly around the waist, until the two of them are curled on the dusty hardwood floor of a closet room. it is warm, almost sickeningly so, and there is a purely superficial comfort in resting his cheek against the hair of the other (fluffy, and with the scent of raspberry, which is far from a commodity in these times). it is objectively more compact, together, and servant’s added presence does absolutely nothing in regards to the darkness,

but, kamukura is not adverse to this. 

after a moment, servant whispers somewhere near his chest, “are you okay?” there is no distinct answer for that, and thus, kamukura stays entirely still and does not say a word of response. it makes servant cuddle closer, which is an interesting shift, and he asks, “are you tired?”

“i am fine,” he states, and it is not as firm as he would like it to be (though, he is certain the delivery is as apathetic as ever, enough that servant may not sense a shift. but, the other knows him well, knows him more than kamukura would like, and thus, it may be obvious). he runs his fingers through servant’s hair. “sleep, if that is what you wish.”

“aha, okay.” servant and kamukura, both, are prone to sleeping at unusual times. it is 3:17 pm, for instance, and yet, their internal clocks do not prevent them from exhaustion. servant is unconscious near immediately, which is interesting compared to his past behaviors, but kamukura chooses not to investigate that train of thought too deeply (though, it is not like he has control of his thoughts. it is not like he has control of anything).

and eventually, despite the circumstance, he finds himself submitting to sleep as well.

(in the morning, servant will ache from the positioning, and kamukura will find himself ever-so-slightly stiff. they will leave the closet, attempt to take another shower before determining the faucet is contaminated, and proceed to exit the building to travel elsewhere. throughout the entire process, neither of them discuss, or attempt to discuss, why kamukura was in the closet in the first place.

they never will.)

**Author's Note:**

> ooc? maybe. cathartic? maybe. a vent? maybe.
> 
> who knows
> 
> i didnt look over this much tbh. i just vibed. but incorrectly because i dont know how to write izuru ig (like i do but i cant write him whilst sad at 10 am i think. it's been twelve hours fuck if i know)
> 
> bye loves


End file.
